


in response:

by stilinski



Series: Silly Shorts (Tumblr Ficlets) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinski/pseuds/stilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had clambered out of the shower to a new text - <em>Pics or it didn’t happen, big guy</em> - which had sent Derek’s mind racing to approximately twelve different conclusions. Eventually, he’d decided to take a photo of his shower, condensation and water still clinging to the glass and tile walls, and sent that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in response:

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/post/100338974151). Because of [Mar](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com/post/100297317879/i-want-a-long-distance-au-with-stiles-at-college).
> 
> **Additionally: I do not give my consent for my work to be shared on GoodReads, or any other site with a similar objective. Ever. No exceptions.**

The first time Derek had awoken to Stiles' sleepy eyes and mussed hair, he'd been unsure what to do. He'd settled for rolling out of bed, phone clutched in his hand, and staggering over to the coffee machine before letting himself even contemplate making a decision.

  A decision, as it had happened, that Stiles took right out of his hands: Derek had received a follow-up text just as he'd been starting his second cup of coffee. **Dude, you have to send one back** , followed five minutes later by **I know you're awake, dude - you jump to attention when your phone's on vibrate three rooms away** , and then, **I'm gonna send deputies to your door to check you're alive. Don't think I won't**.

  Derek had vaguely recalled a passing conversation between Kira, Stiles and Scott trying to devise a way to check in with one another without having to resort to speaking in code (unsurprisingly, Stiles had been all for it and it had taken Scott stepping in as the voice of reason, pointing out that college was going to be tough enough with all the studying; they didn't need to learn a whole new language on top of it). They'd eventually settled on taking photographs of themselves, as evidenced by Stiles' sleepy face on Derek's phone.

  He'd rolled his eyes and tapped into his camera app, of a mind to just send the first photo he took, but then there'd been sad evidence of his research binge - take out cartons and old tomes strewn all over the coffee table - in the background of the photo so, coffee cup cradled to his chest, he'd relocated to the kitchen, but the photo had ended up washed out because of the morning light pouring through the window. Derek had frowned, sent a text back saying **I'm fine. No deputies. I'm going to shower** and drained his coffee on his way to the bathroom.

  He'd clambered out of the shower to a new text - **Pics or it didn't happen, big guy** \- which had sent Derek's mind racing to approximately twelve different conclusions. Eventually, he'd decided to take a photo of his shower, condensation and water still clinging to the glass and tile walls, and sent that. **Dude** , had been all he'd gotten in response. Derek had been able to imagine Stiles making a face and throwing a hand into the air in response and if that particular mental image brought a tiny grin to Derek's face, no one would ever know.

  Derek had watched his phone for a few minutes but nothing had happened. Feeling slightly less ambushed after showering, he'd grabbed his phone, camera app flickering to life, and had snapped a photo of himself, sending it before he'd been able to think twice. He'd gazed at it once he'd received the 'message sent' confirmation and had wanted to hide under a rock and never come out - Stiles had sent him something casual, something almost _cute_ with his sleep-squinting eyes, hair looking as though it had been caught in a vacuum, rumpled sheets visible underneath him; Derek's photo, by contrast, had been of him still not having gotten dressed after his shower, bare shoulders making it pretty plain he'd been at least shirtless, hair towel-mussed and mouth slightly parted. To put it politely, Derek had responded to Stiles' sleepy check-in photo with pure, albeit unconscious, _suggestion_.

  Stiles hadn't responded, but the following morning, there'd been a shower-fresh Stiles waiting for him, eyes bright and mouth quirked in amusement. Derek had groaned and buried his face in his pillow, sitting up and snapping a photo as quickly as he could, sending it and then tossing his phone across the room, rolling back over.

  After that, it becomes routine for Derek. Wake up, check phone, send photo, get coffee, proceed as normal. They talk on the phone once or twice a week but they never talk about the morning photos. Derek's phone fills up with Stiles' bleary eyes, half flattened hair, day old stubble and sleep slack mouth. There's the occasional picture of Stiles using a textbook as a pillow, too tired to bother lifting his head for the camera; there's the even more occasional photo of Stiles actually fully awake, beanie pulled low and coffee clutched in his hand, on his way - late - to an early morning class.

  It becomes so much of a routine that Derek finds himself sending his photos first, particularly on weekends when Stiles is usually still asleep until at least noon.

  Not surprisingly, Stiles is the first one to say something that sets something off in Derek's chest. Calling Derek after a late running study session at the library, Stiles is walking home alone across campus while Derek's making dinner for himself. Stiles laughs suddenly - probably in response to Derek cursing his ancient cooker.

  "Actual food sounds great right now," he says and Derek listens to his steady steps, the shuffle of material as he, in Derek's mind's eye, hitches his backpack higher on his shoulders. "I've fallen prey to the typical college student life I promised myself I'd try to avoid. Nasty not-even-brand-name noodles and nastier instant coffee are all I have to look forward to."

  Derek's lost, just for a second, imagining Stiles coming home to him instead of six hundred miles away to an empty apartment and the thought makes him flush, makes a gentle ache flare up in his chest. "I thought Melissa was sending you care packages."

  Stiles snorts. "She does, but I have no self control," he says. "I'm lucky if the things in those boxes last more than three days."

  The clincher comes when Derek hears Stiles pull out his keys and let himself into his apartment; Derek knows Stiles knows that Derek can hear that he's no longer wandering around campus, but neither of them hang up. Derek settles on his couch with a bowl of whole-wheat pasta and pesto, and Stiles continues to talk; he goes over topics they've already talked about, but Derek's begun to find he doesn't mind -- he lets the chatter wash over him, humming and agreeing when appropriate, and resolutely not thinking about what any of it means.

  The photographs don't change after that, but there's something new about them. In the morning, after Stiles had fallen asleep talking to Derek, Derek wakes up to Stiles' soft, sleepy smile and a follow up text reading **Good morning :)**. Derek responds with a tentative, barely-there smile of his own and a text to wish Stiles a pleasant morning in kind. He walks around the rest of the day feeling kind of restless and warm.

*

It's a few days before Thanksgiving when Derek's thoughts come to a screeching halt for a heart-rending hour. He'd been up late the previous evening texting Stiles who'd been at a party getting steadily more drunk as the night progressed, though he'd been no less articulate for it. There'd been a flurry of photos -- "Selfies, Derek. They're called selfies." "' _Selfies_ ' is a stupid, made up word and I refuse." "It's in the dictionary, dude - it's a thing, sorry to break it to you." -- of a blurry Stiles doing a shot, hiding from an overly handsy girl in the bathroom, a hastily snapped shot of him dancing among a dozen other blurry bodies. Derek had sent him one of himself curled up on the couch in his sweats and a hoody, a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose, and Stiles had called him unfair. Stiles had said he missed him.

  So Derek wakes up the following morning still feeling warm from their not-even-conversation; he grabs for his phone and he's aware his dependence on it is getting ridiculous. Something cold and hard unfurls in his gut, sudden and unwelcome, when he opens Stiles' early morning _selfie_. He can make out the top of Stiles' head, the slant of his cheekbone and slope of his nose still recognisable from the MySpace-worthy angle, but the thing that gets his attention is the head of long, dark hair pressed into Stiles' bare chest. The shirt she's wearing is twisted around her body, but Derek would recognise Stiles' bright yellow _Cougar's Den_ shirt anywhere.

  He doesn't respond to it, doesn't know how. He puts down his phone and goes to make coffee, goes to shower, runs to the store, comes home without buying anything, picks up his phone and stares at the photograph some more.

  Slowly, realisation sets in, something tickles in the back of his mind. Fully awake, he scrambles to scroll up through the texts exchanged and then he finds it: Kira. Stiles had been at the party with _Kira_ , playing the part of wingman because the party was being thrown by a girl Kira had a crush on. Derek swipes back onto the photo and now that he has something to go off, he recognises the delicate curve of Kira's jaw, the watch on her wrist, her arm curled up between her and Stiles' bodies.

  It's Kira in the photo. It's Kira, who's interested in a girl, who loves Stiles like a brother, curled up against Stiles' chest in an entirely non-sexual way. Derek sags where he's perched on the edge of his own bed, pushing a hand though his hair. Even now, even though he knows it's Kira, that it's not some nameless girl Stiles got drunk and horny with, Derek's chest doesn't feel like it's fully able to expand again. He groans to himself and rubs a hand over his face. Stiles isn't coming home until winter break - he's staying at college over Thanksgiving, has arrangements to Skype dinner with his father, Scott and Melissa. Derek knows because Stiles told him, because Stiles tells him everything, because Stiles has been encouraging him to join his father, Scott and Melissa for Thanksgiving like it's normal, like he wouldn't be impeding on tradition between the two families having Thanksgiving dinner together.

  It's like being dunked in a pool of freezing water: Derek's mind clears all at once and his car keys are in his hand before he's even really, consciously decided what he's doing.

  He finds himself in the car before he knows it.

  *

Derek approaches the door with building trepidation. He should have called ahead, should have told _someone_ he was coming, at least. He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head; he'd had no real _intention_ until he was five hours into the drive, anyway. His phone's dead; he didn't think to pack a charger in his haste to leave. He didn't think, period.

  He knocks. Listens.

  "What do you mean, he's not there? How is he not there? He has to be there! Can Scott get a scent, or, I don't know, sense pheromones or whatever the hell it is they do to figure out if he left under duress or--Jesus, he can't help himself, can he? Getting himself kidnapped on Thanksgiving. I'm going to _kill_ him for going missing while I'm six hundred--what do you mean, Scott can't sense any fear or pain? What does that mean--does that mean he just--he _left_? Where would he go? It's nearly seven o'clock - he told me he just had plans to watch TV and go to bed early.

  "Yeah, we talk a lot. That's not the point here, dad -- the point is, Derek's missing and I can't do anything to help. I swear to God, Scott, you need to find him--you have to, all right?"

  Something loosens in Derek's chest just hearing Stiles' voice and he knocks again, louder, bracing himself for Stiles' reaction, whatever it may be.

  "Hold on, guys - some asshole can't take a hint," Stiles says, his footsteps nearing the door. It swings open and Derek shoves his hands into his jeans pockets to keep himself from reaching out to take hold of Stiles, to smooth his hands over the rumpled shirt covering his hips, push back his riotous hair. Stiles' eyes widen and his mouth falls open soundlessly, lips working. "I, uh -- I found Derek. Or, Derek found me, I guess. Yeah, he's -- he looks okay. I'm gonna go - uh - Happy Thanksgiving. Tell Melissa I expect some of that pie when I come home for Christmas."

  There's a laugh and a murmur of assent before Stiles is hanging up his phone, hand dropping to his side. He stares at Derek some more. Derek takes a step forward, and then another when Stiles doesn't retreat, curls a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and brushes their noses together, lips barely catching Stiles'.

  Stiles swallows convulsively before he's reaching around Derek to smack his door closed, shoving Derek against it and pushing their mouths together more firmly; his phone gets dropped on the end table by the door and Stiles fists his hands in the front of Derek's jacket; Derek finally allows himself to touch, to curl his hands around Stiles' hips and pull him closer, biting into his mouth, feeling Stiles' body relax into his.

  Eventually, their kiss dissolves into mostly just breathing against one another's mouths. Slowly, Stiles' hands slide down Derek's chest and he lifts his head. Quietly, Derek looks his fill, taking in all of the details of Stiles, existing in his hands instead of on his phone.

  "I should kick your ass," Stiles says. "I was--we were worried. You didn't text me this morning and your phone was going straight to voicemail, and Scott and my dad were saying how there was no sign of a struggle at your place, and I was just texting you last night and I was worried I said something stupid but I couldn't find anything in our texts and, God, I was kind of wishing I _had_ said something because what if that had been my last chance and--"

  Derek kisses him. Stiles yanks him close by his jacket again, letting out a soft noise that's halfway between frustration and surrender, opening his mouth to nip at Derek's top lip, draw out his tongue with his own, hands sliding under the shoulders of Derek's jacket and pushing it back, forcing Derek to let go of his hips for a second while he shrugs it off, wrapping his hands around the backs of Stiles' thighs to lift him and steer them through the small apartment - there are a total of two doors, and by scent, it's relatively easy to find the bedroom. Stiles grins up at him when Derek drops him on the bed, breathing out a laugh and yanking his own shirt over his head, reaching up to grab Derek's Henley, using it to pull him down before wrestling him out of it.

  The cold, empty hole in his chest is warm and full again, as corny as it sounds; there are no longer bands of iron squeezing his ribs. He can breathe again, face pressed into Stiles' neck as Stiles presses into him, both of them gasping, sweat sliding down Stiles' back, making Derek's hands slip as he tries to pull him closer, deeper, _more--please, Stiles_.

  Some combination of the nine hour straight drive and having to deal with LA traffic, and the constant back-of-the-mind panic that Stiles would shut the door in his face has Derek dropping off to sleep before Stiles is even back from retrieving a washcloth from the bathroom, but he finds he doesn't care, especially when he wakes up with Stiles pressed flush along his side rather than just on the screen of his phone.

  He lifts his head from the pillow just enough to look around the room and spots his cellphone on the bedside, plugged into Stiles' charger. His jacket is slung over the back of Stiles' computer chair, their clothes folded on his desk. Carefully, Derek reaches over Stiles to grab his phone, managing to free it from the cable one-handed. He taps into the camera app and glances at Stiles, still sound asleep. He snaps a photo of them both, feeling sort of cheesy, but sends it anyway. He slings his phone onto the bedside and settles back down, burying his nose in Stiles' hair.

  If he stirs again a little while later to a similar photo from Stiles and spends five minutes grinning at the ceiling, well, no one's there to see him - he can hear Stiles fixing breakfast, humming off-key along to the radio and decides there and then that actually, he probably wouldn't mind even if someone were to see him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/) \-- come say hi! :)


End file.
